One of the cows in front of them lowed. Rodd reached over and patted the broad, white-faced Holstein. "The medicine looks like it's doing its job. Let me get you home, Wendy." With his other hand on her shoulder, he turned her back toward the door. His hand rode on her back once again, sparking her awareness of him. Why couldn't she just slip out of his touch? She couldn't. He turned out the lights and closed the door behind them.
Inside the Jeep again, she shivered and said, "Brrrr!" But her inner glow warred with the cold winter night.
"Everyone tells me this is really cold for early November." He made a wide U-turn and headed down the road to the highway.
"The temperatures do feel more like January. But every year is weird in its own way." She shrugged.
He chuckled softly.
The sound skittered up her spine. "You know what I mean," she chattered. "Every year the weather has something unusual about it. People complain about so much snow so early, but if we were warm and dry, they'd be worried about the snowshoeing and the snowmobiling season not making money."
Then she regretted her reference to snowmobiles. By the dash light, she saw his hands tighten on the wheel. "I'm sure you'll catch the thief," she said.
His dash radio crackled to life. He picked up. The voice on the radio barked, "Sheriff, you there? Disturbance. Respond to Flanagan's Bar. Code three."
"I copy that." He snapped it off and the siren blared. "Sorry. I guess we'll have to make one more stop before I get you home."
Wendy felt as though the air had been knocked out of her. As they sped down the road, her pleasant evening dissolved. Why did it have to be Flanagan's? Her hand went to her mouth. But when she felt her nail touch her lip, she sat on her hands—hoping against hope that this wouldn't be what she feared. Surely not.
Within minutes, they surged over a rise and saw the garish, green neon sign with a shamrock that emblazoned the night sky with "Flanagan's." Then, with sinking spirits, Wendy foresaw her worst nightmare happening now.
Chapter Three
An unruly gathering filled the road in front of the bar. At its center, two middle-aged men—one with short dark hair and one with long white blond hair pulled back into a straggly ponytail—yelled curses at each other. They circled each other with menace. Their anger must have been hot because they'd come out of the bar into the bitter cold without jackets or hats.
Wendy recognized both men instantly—Dutch and Elroy, Trav's uncle—just as she'd feared. Flanagan's, the most notorious bar in the county, had always been their favorite place to fight. The loud voices, the raucous music from inside the tavern, the rotating red light on top of the police car lent the scene an unearthly quality. She wanted to shrink down in the seat.
Reporting his arrival on the radio, Rodd parked the Jeep and jumped out. He strode forward to the center of the crowd. But before he could do or say anything, Dutch swung at Elroy. Wendy watched in alarm as Rodd stepped between the two.
Dutch pulled his punch. The fight ended.
The onlookers drew back toward the entrance of the bar but waited outside, not wishing to miss any of the evening's "entertainment." Wendy pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. Dutch's blond hair, which had earned him his nickname, shone in the dim light. Dutch talked loudly to Rodd. gesticulating toward Elroy, who was backing away with his hands in front of him. It was like a scene from some TV reality cop show.
Dutch glanced at the sheriff's Jeep; then ignoring both Elroy and the sheriff, he walked quickly toward Wendy.
Wendy felt something in her mouth. She spit out one of her pale pink nails and groaned silently.
Rodd trailed behind Dutch, but she watched the sheriff's face. Did he know?
As Dutch came closer, he shouted in a drunken slur, "Hey, Wendy girl! Sheriff, why's Wendy in your car? Hi, Wendy!"
Wendy sat up straight and met the sheriff's questioning gaze head-on. Family was family. "Hi, Uncle Dutch."
The next morning, the opening prayer ended, and Rodd sat down in the very last pew to listen to church announcements. But his mind wasn't on a potluck supper or church cleanup day. He'd come to a decision about how to proceed with his investigation, and he'd act on it today. Bui what had happened last night might interfere with his plan.
After ending the fight outside Flanagan's, he'd been taken completely by surprise. He was still surprised. How could he have known that Dutch Rieker, a county resident with a long list of priors—charges of drunk and disorderly behavior, petty theft, vandalism—was Wendy's uncle?
Now he understood some previous comments people had made to him about how Wendy favored her father's family, not her mother's. Dutch must be her mother's brother. He'd never bothered to look into it, dismissing it as unimportant gossip. If he'd only realized her connection with Dutch, he'd have tried to save her from embarrassment. Every family had its black sheep.
The song leader motioned the congregation to rise and Rodd followed suit. The organist began to play. Rodd sang along with the old hymn: '"Under His wings I am safely abiding; though the night deepens ..."'
With his superior height, Rodd scanned the congregation until he located Wendy's short-cropped, golden brown head. When he'd entered church this morning, he'd found himself looking for her—as if he'd planned to sit with her. But he always sat alone in church. Wendy shared a hymnal with Harlan. Beside her stood a young man and an attractive brunette teenage girl. She must be Wendy's sister and the boyfriend Harlan had told him about last night.
The music swelled: '"Still I can trust Him...He has redeemed me and I am His child.'"
His eyes slid over the brunette and settled again on Wendy. She stood straight, her shoulders squared. He could tell she was used to carrying a lot of responsibility on those slender shoulders. He admired that. Above the other voices, he heard her strong soprano: '"Under His wings, under His wings, who from His love can sever?'"
Then she glanced up at her grandfather and smiled with such sweetness. Rodd's own voice caught in his throat. It was easy to believe that Wendy belonged to Harlan. Did she think Rodd thought she was like her uncle he'd met last night? Had this been what prompted Wendy's comment that folks around here didn't forget or forgive?
Again, his sympathy stirred for Wendy while he joined in on the end of the chorus and he sank back into his pew. Around him, songbooks snapped shut. Everyone settled in, ready to listen to the sermon.
Rodd noted a large woman from the back of her gray head. This unfriendly woman always sat alone off to Rodd's right a few pews ahead of him. He'd seen her every Sunday, but she never sang, never spoke to anyone or smiled. Now she turned her head left, toward Wendy. Even from her profile, he could see that she gave Wendy a scathing look—one so full of malice that it made Rodd uneasy. What could have caused that? Did Wendy have an enemy?
He was learning he had to be aware of small-town feuds. Late last night the dispatcher had filled him in on the longtime Elroy Dietz-Dutch Rieker feud and its causes. The two men were notorious troublemakers. Could either one have any connection to the burglaries?
Pastor Bruce Weaver, a younger man with sandy-colored hair, glanced to the back of the church where Rodd sat. "Elder Carey has requested a special Wednesday night prayer meeting. We are very concerned about the burglaries taking place in our county. And we want to ask God to help our sheriff catch the culprit. Is that all right with you, Sheriff?"
Rodd stood up. He hadn't done his job, and his county was losing respect for him already. But what was he supposed to reply here—no? He nodded stiffly and sat back down.
"Let's pray about it right now," the pastor began. As the pastor prayed, Rodd wrestled with his reaction to it. He'd attended church all his life, but he never felt comfortable asking God to help him do a job—something that was his responsibility and within his power to do.
Just give me a chance. I'll do my job.
The prayer ended and Rodd tried to concentrate, but instead he gazed at the back of Wendy's head, the gold in her hair shining under the church lights. Why did she wear her hair in such a short severe style? She was so feminine in every other way. He remembered lifting her from his Jeep yesterday at the clinic.
Pastor Weaver opened the large Bible on the pulpit amid the sound of people turning pages in their own Bibles. He read the morning Scripture aloud, Ecclesiastes 4:9-2:
'"Two people can accomplish more than twice as much as one; they get a better return for their labor. If one person falls, the other can reach out and help. But people who are alone when they fall are in real trouble. ... A person standing alone can be attacked and defeated, but two can stand back-to-back and conquer. Three are even better, for a triple-braided cord is not easily broken.'"
As the pastor began his sermon about working together, Rodd kept his attention on it. He'd come to appreciate the quality of the pastor's sermons, straightforward and caring. And today the Scripture paralleled uncannily the direction of his own thoughts.
Still, Rodd didn't completely agree with the message. In his profession, a smart officer depended primarily on himself. Even a good partner could let you down badly—and at the most critical moments. An image from the past when he'd felt shame flashed in his mind, and the old anger at himself burned inside him. He pushed it away. This was now and he had a thief to catch. That meant—
Without warning, a very small boy wedged himself in the tight space between Rodd's hip and the side of the wooden pew. Startled, Rodd looked down into a cheerful, freckled face. Rodd couldn't recall which family the boy belonged to. He leaned down and whispered, "Young man, do you need anything?"
The little boy, blond and brown-eyed, shook his head and pressed his index finger to his lips. He motioned for Rodd to lean down again. When Rodd did, the boy whispered, "You aren't supposed to talk in church."
Rodd suppressed a grin and nodded solemnly. The sensation of being so close to a little child brought him an unexpected nostalgia. As he listened to the sermon about helping one another, one of his earliest memories flashed in his mind—Uncle George and he sitting side by side on the old sofa in front of a winter fire. Uncle George said, "Now this is what I call cozy." Cozy Without planning to, Rodd grinned down at the boy. The child grinned back at him, then pressed his finger to his lips as a reminder. Rodd nodded, then looked back to the pastor.
But as much as he tried to keep his mind on the pastor's words, his mind kept drifting to the investigation. His next move was so simple; it was like reading from a law-enforcement textbook. But it all depended on Wendy. What answer would she give him today?
Also he couldn't approach her the way he would in the city. Here she wasn't just a source. She was Harlan Carey's granddaughter, a woman who obviously felt her own reputation had been tainted by her mother's family. Did she think he didn't know how having a less-than-perfect family felt? His mother had run off when he was only two, leaving his dad struggling to raise Rodd alone. His father hadn't started dating again until Rodd was in his teens. Raised without a mother or a sister, Rodd always felt uncertain around women. He turned his gaze to Wendy again. Would he say the wrong thing and hurt her? offend her?
But he had to ask.
In the midst of his unruly thoughts the sermon ended, and the congregation rose to sing the closing hymn, "Blest Be the Tie That Binds." The boy climbed up on the pew to stand beside Rodd. Sharing his hymnal with the little guy, they sang, "The fellowship of kindred minds is like to that above.'" The final prayer was offered, and the organist began playing the postlude. Everyone relaxed, gathering their belongings and chatting as they started to exit.
"Hi. I'm Zak!" the little boy announced and stuck out his hand.
Rodd shook the small hand. "Hi, I—"
"You're the sheriff! I seen you in your police car. It's really neat."
Rodd nodded, then glanced toward the aisle in time to see Harlan and Wendy coming toward them. Suddenly the large, mannish woman Rodd had noticed before deliberately stepped in front of them, pointedly turning her back to them How odd. Rodd recalled the final hymn. Evidently, it hadn't touched every heart here.
As the grim, rude woman stalked past Rodd, Zak shouted, "Mr. Carey, hi! See me! I sitted quiet all the way through my daddy's sermon! I didn't talk once. Did I, Sheriff?"
Rodd nodded with a smile. So this was the pastor's son.
Harlan stepped closer to them to let others walk by. Zak launched himself upward, and Harlan caught and hugged the child. "When are you going to come out and visit me again, Zak?"
"Mom!" Zak twisted around, looking in one direction, then the other. "Mom!"
"Yes, Zachary." Penny Weaver, pretty and plump, bustled up the aisle. She leaned down and tapped her son's nose. "Why did you come up from the nursery, young man?"
"The nursery is for babies!" Zak declared from Harlan's arms. "Daddy said I could get out of the nursery when I could sit still for the whole sermon." Zak twisted toward Rodd. "Sheriff, I didn't talk even once, did I?"
Rodd laughed and shook his head.